You rest on the petal of a stargazer,
you pretty little butterfly.
Rose coloured wings take you where ever you want to go
and there's nothing you've ever been denied.
Nobody could ever say you're not beautiful,
butterfly.
No one in the world can ever say
that your pink isn't the pinkest of them all.
Those wings beat with passion,
soar delicately on the currents
and let you dance among the stars.
Your whole presence shimmers and vibrates
and you're so blissfully oblivious to everything but you.
It must be nice to never shiver in the cold,
to choose to only feel the warmth of sunshine
flowing over your expanse of pretty wing.
You're so delighted and happy,
butterfly.
So carefree and childlike and simple.
I'm glad
because soon you're you'll be plucked from your stargazer petal
flitting about in a haze like you've suddenly
finally,
finally
jolted awake from some decandent dream...
and then crunch
you're a wreckage
of dumb hollow beauty,
crumpled and lifeless
in a little boy's palm.

10/16/2003

Author's Note: Simple as that, and that quick. Life isn't fair, and sometimes life's blind to a pretty face, miss.

Posted on 10/17/2003
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia